The Afterlife
by freakochicko
Summary: It was a pointless conversation, really. But for John and Marie, it was just another one of those memories that would forever be locked up and never shared with anyone else.
1. Only Shadows of Us

**The Afterlife**

They don't have anything left to say to each other. It's all a distant past now, and it's like it's been a thousand years ago. So, when she finds him quite by accident, sitting alone in a dark and dingy alleyway full of grey and dusky shadows of the night, looking like he's never once been the person she knew those many months before, she sits with him wordlessly; doesn't make a sound. The only acknowledgement she gets is a look of fleeting surprise and well, nothing more but hardened reserve, for he turns away and mutters a pronounced but darkly whispered curse.

Marie doesn't mind in the least. It's the very reaction she expects out of him anyway. But she still feels a small pang of dejection somewhere deep down when he turns his head away like she was the turncoat, not the other way around. But she flicks the momentary feeling away without a second thought. At least he's not getting up and leaving just because she's somehow back to square one here with him. At least he's not moving away.

It feels like they have a million miles of empty space between them as they sit there beside one another; a million miles of empty space never to be filled again by anything other than more hatred and more longing and even more meaningless silence.

There are no sounds around them, just deep, deep quiet. And the night sky is cloudless and starless and only just a black and bitter abyss of ink. They are both wrapped in bleak, stagnant darkness that only gets more sinister and foreboding as the time passes.

And she's deeply surprised that she's the one who initiates the talk. It's no more than her slight inhalation and a tilting of the head towards the sky that sends John bristling.

"So…" she starts, trying to keep whatever emotions she has at the moment hidden behind her indifference.

And his expression turns into one of fleeting anger. She's broken the silence and he hates her for it. Now comes the inevitable talk, he thinks to himself knowingly, that will most probably make _everything_ go to hell. At least when they don't say a word, he can fucking _pretend_. Pretend that they aren't strangers; aren't fucking enemies right now. At least when it's silent, he can pretend that everything's right and nothing's wrong and that they were still the Johnny 'Dyce and Marie D'Ancanto of the past.

And then she starts the damn _talk _and he so badly wants to slap her for not realizing what she's started.

But he doesn't slap her. Only replies with a scathing murmur.

"_You have some nerve._"

And his tone is scornful and hard and not like how she remembers it. It's not the good-humored, silver-tongued voice she's used to. But she isn't surprised.

She looks at him, carefully arranging her face into a look of contemptuous dislike. But searching his face all the same like a mother would a child. He wasn't even looking at her.

"Sorry?" she returns, her voice almost as hard as his.

He makes a noise like he's irritated and says nothing more.

She struggles inwardly, not knowing whether to hit him or to try again.

"John…" she begins, and he sends her an icy stare.

"_PYRO_," he corrects loudly, his glare murderous.

Marie wrings her hands in unhidden exasperation.

Her restlessness catches his eye and he looks down at her gloveless fingers. He snorts and looks away abruptly, flashes of the meeting he had with Drake at the clinic sparking in his mind like fireworks.

"Traitor." And it's almost a whisper.

"You're one to talk," she retorts on impulse, knowing that his hate for her decision to rid herself of her mutation was fueling his anger.

"You're one of _them_ now," he bites, "_Homo sapiens_."

"And of course, you hate them. You hate_ me_."

And he just shuts up and looks away again. She knows he wants to say more, but he doesn't. The heat emanating from him tells her all she needs to know.

"You _do_ hate me," she murmurs, feeling empty all of a sudden.

He looks at her for almost a full minute, eyes unreadable and expressionless.

"You know what?" she says, unnerved by his silent gaze, "I don't _care_ anymore. Hate me all you want. You – you, _all_ of you! You and – and Bobby just do as you please and walk out on me. And you know, I don't think I care anymore!"

"Walk out on you?" he blazes with renewed heat. "Excuse me, but _you_ were the one who came in from out of nowhere acting like a fucking saint, turned _my_ best friend into _your_ boyfriend, expected me to remain a tag-along _third wheel_ while you two share stupid secrets and hold hands… and you wonder why I WALKED OUT ON YOU?!"

He's breathing heavily now, and it seems as though it was something he's always wanted to say to her.

"So it's MY fault, now?"

Once again, she's met with silence. And this one stretches on for so long that Marie thinks she'll explode with impatient rage.

"Oh, god!" she finally yells. "What is your _problem_, John?" And she feels like she's having a one-sided conversation with a wall when he doesn't respond until half a minute later.

"Nothing," is his mechanical reply, and his voice is so flat and so dead that she knows he's not telling the truth. Any indication that he had been screaming at her before is now nonexistent.

He's back to his emotionless self.

She eyes him warily now, her anger dissipating the moment his lifeless answer left his lips.

"John…" she says, softer this time, trying to get him to _understand_ and _listen_.

"Don't call me that!" he snaps wildly.

She recoils, but doesn't stop. "John, what's the problem?"

And she feels guilty because she isn't even _curious_. She only asks because she suddenly feels so, so sorry for him and feels so, so upset about everything that's happened to him since he'd left almost nine months ago.

"Why do _you_ care? Weren't you just yelling at me about '_walking out_' on you?"

"John - "

"Stop with the fucking _John_ shit, dammit."

" – I just want to know…" _Want to help_, she wants to add, but it just dies in her throat.

"WE'RE NOT _FRIENDS_ ANYMORE, MARIE," he snarls.

And she feels like she's been slapped in the face. Her eyes narrow dangerously. "I think I already know that, _Johnny_," she hisses. "Doesn't mean you can't answer my fucking question!" And she knows her anger is not hers entirely. Pyro is rearing his ugly head within her own and she wants to fucking burn something. She was so very wrong when she thought the Cure would also erase the people and memories in her head.

_Hell, Rogue. __You are __**stupid**_. "You – have – misunderstood - me," John grinds out. "I _ANSWERED_ YOUR BLOODY QUESTION. THAT_ WAS_ MY ANSWER._"_

_John, what's the problem?_

_We're not friends anymore, Marie._

She almost suffocates in the darkness; feels it pulling at her. It's now that she understands why he's acting like such an angry kid in front of her. Their friendship had crumbled to dust. Once upon a time, there was _something_ there. Something. Now, it's been gone for a long time.

"We can't go back to that ever again, can we?" she says finally with quiet reserve. There's a tightening around her chest.

"I've fought my battles, you've fought yours," he replies simply, coldly. "We've gone different ways. You, me, even Drake, from what I gather." And he looks almost pityingly at her. Almost.

"Yes."

"He moved on, I take it?"

"I shouldn't have taken it," she says, ignoring his question.

"What?"

"The Cure."

"No. You shouldn't have."

He isn't surprised that she's feeling ashamed for what she did.

"Kitty," she murmurs unconsciously, her mind unfocused and blurred.

He raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. Maybe he knows what's going on, maybe he doesn't. But he knows he's past the point of getting _involved_. He's no longer one of them.

She looks over at him tiredly, snapping out of her reverie.

"So, where're you gonna' go now?" she asks.

He gives her a half-shrug.

They lapse into silence once more.

This time, it's only just a contemplative silence and no longer a hateful silence full of crackling tension.

It isn't like there's any point for him to tell _her_ that he had missed her (and maybe even Drake) while he'd been gone. It isn't like there's any point for her to tell _him_ he shouldn't have left; to tell him he should come _home_. It's stupid telling each other the things they wanted so very much to hear so very long ago. The time is long gone now and they both know it.

They were stuck here, not unalike, and the world around them isn't _moving_; and still they don't know where to go.

And then, he stands.

Her eyes follow him, but she doesn't rise from the pavement.

"Well, goodbye," he says abruptly, turning away. "Hope we never meet again."

And she blinks and struggles for a moment before managing a wry smile. "Yeah… I hope so too," she replies, voice soft and serene and much gentler than she ever remembers it. Because she knows damn well that he's lying and he's faking and he doesn't _want_ that at all. She knows this. And he knows that she knows this. And so he doesn't mind that she's smiling. As long as they're both lying to each other, he thinks, it should be just fine.

And he saunters off into the darkness, leaving her alone.

She only stays there for another hour in the alleyway, her mind oddly blank, before getting up and making her way back to the mansion. And she's still smiling, knowing – somehow knowing – that she is still being watched from somewhere out there within the veil of shadows, ensuring her safe passage home.


	2. Downpour over the Departed

_**Author's note:**__ This happens almost a year after their last meeting. And yes, Rogue's powers came back._

-

It was raining.

That much she remembers.

The sky had poured tears of sorrow down onto the well-manicured lawn and the colorless people down below all dressed in somber black. She recalls the procession well. It only took an hour and it was over, like it never meant a thing.

It was a proper funeral.

But somehow, she cannot help but feel, as she stands there now with a blank, uncomprehending stare on her face, as though no one really gave this dead body its last rights. As though no one really celebrated his life in true.

She doesn't know why she's there still. By herself. She feels almost detached from the world.

They've all gone back now, and she's left alone to continue looking at the grave with her vacant gaze, the rain pattering down the grey clouds and onto the umbrella she's clutching limply in her gloved hand. A spray of cool droplets blow against her stinging cheeks as the wind picks up and dies down just as quick.

It's _cold_.

That fact registers in her head and she tries not to allow tears to mingle with the raindrops sliding down her face. Coldness is perhaps all she'll remember of him now.

His gravestone – embellished white marble with an engraved rose carved just above the gold imprinted words – looks simple and monochrome under the cloud-drenched sky.

She does not know why she's here. Still. The funeral was over. The goodbyes were made. There's nothing left for her here. Nothing at all.

_He was an idiot._

Oh yes, he was. The way he died proved it. And she thinks she's said that in her head, or out loud. Then realizes it's neither, as she looks to one side to find _him_ standing there, just under one of the large, flailing trees five paces away.

She hasn't the strength to look surprised nor to even acknowledge the new presence.

His face is a mixture of extremities; emotions so deep that it seems almost singularly deadened. His eyes are grey from where she stands, and they only look to the erected stone tablet, not at her.

"He was an idiot," he mentions again like he needs to reinforce the statement. Then he shakes his head like it were something exasperating. "Went and got himself killed, didn't he?"

She doesn't say anything. She doesn't know why he's here. Doesn't want to know what sort of sick joke fate was trying to play on them all. The three of them.

He approaches the headstone and stands close beside her, dripping wet. He doesn't have an umbrella like her. She thinks that maybe she should offer to share what little shelter she had left with him, but thinks better of it and doesn't. He would refuse it anyway, being the stubborn kid he was.

And she can see that he's shivering, but has that familiar air of distant _vagueness_ in his expression. Maybe he doesn't mind the cold, because it is his only likely way of embracing what he couldn't before; his only way of perhaps paying his last respects to the one now deceased.

She knows he hates the cold.

He is serious and unsmiling, probably the only time he's ever displayed grim solemnity.

"It wasn't his fault he died," she starts to speak, sensing the question beforehand and saving him the difficulty of asking. "Xavier…" She starts, and her voice dies.

Silence.

"Oh yes. The man comes back to life, resumes his role, and fucking gets more people killed in his stupid X-Men missions. He's my idol, Xavier. Really."

She isn't particularly surprised at the vehemence and sarcasm and utter contemptuous bitterness in his voice.

No, she feels the same way and doesn't blame him in the slightest. She's known that he had always despised Charles Xavier. If he didn't have a reason before, he did now.

"He grabbed me. His last moments. Didn't have the time to say anything. So he grabbed my arm. And I took what was left. Then… he died."

He spins on his heel to look at her. Hard.

"I'm not going to say it was I who ultimately killed him," she sighs warily, not catching his eye. "I'm not going to say it's my fault."

_But yo__u're thinking it, anyway,_ he wants to accuse. But doesn't. If she believes it's her fault, he won't stop her from believing otherwise.

"You know what he's saying? In my head, I mean…"

John stays quiet, his eyes wandering over to the unadorned gravestone once more as if it were an enigma.

"She wasn't for him," Marie continues, "And he didn't mean any of it. He was stupid for leaving me for her. He regrets…" She sighs again, as though all she wants is to do is _forget,_ and looks at her companion. "And he thinks… thought… you… were… well, he doesn't blame you."

"For what?"

"For…" she makes a helpless gesture, not knowing what to say, really.

"Leaving?" he supplies.

"Leaving."

The rain is falling in sheets now and John smears an arm over his face in an attempt to get the water out of his eyes.

Marie doesn't have the heart to ask if he's crying.

"He wasn't… happy with you. But he really doesn't blame you."

John just gazes silently at the grey block of marble in an unmoving trance.

Marie lowers the umbrella in her hand and shuts it. There's no use holding it up anymore anyway, with the rain spattering in all directions through the relentless wind. She is as soaking wet as John is at the moment, her hair and dress plastering to her skin.

He speaks finally, and in his voice is something close to bitterness and resentment.

"Well, _I_ blame _him_."

Marie blinks and carefully looks at him from the corner of her eyes.

"For what?"

"… For leaving."

"… Of course…" _No, John. You're blaming yourself._ "Of course…"

"He was an idiot." And this time, the bitterness is plain and obvious in his voice.

Marie only reaches out and takes his hand in hers.

He doesn't flinch away, doesn't look at her, doesn't say anything. He only grips her fingers tight. And that was enough.

And they stay like that, just looking down at the grave of someone who once meant something to both of them. Now gone and lost forever.

Here Lies  
**Robert Louis Drake**

Too Young, Too Fast.  
_Rest In Peace._

---

_**Author's note:**__ I don't know what it is with me and funerals and deaths._

_Anyway, leave a review if you can. It will be much appreciated._


	3. Frozen in Place

It's not that they don't trust each other. It's not that they don't want to build faith in each other once more. No. It's just that they feel like they shouldn't involve themselves in something they might lose themselves both in and hurt each other in the end. Being separated physically and emotionally by his leave so long ago had already left a gaping hole in their once-solid relationship. They already know that there's _something_ missing that they cannot replace nor retrieve nor _rebuild_. And they both understand that it's better if they leave it that way.

The next time they meet, she's the one who seeks him out, and it's exactly forty-eight months after the death of Bobby Drake. She's regained her footing, now very much engaged to someone else she never really knew.

_He's_ the opposite, though. She knows. He never went anywhere; never moved forward. He didn't have a chance to. He's _stuck_. Trapped. It's as if she only realizes that now, however, as she looks at him from the doorway silently.

He looks up from where he's been doing nothing, just as soon as the door slams shut loudly, and becomes aware that he's not alone.

"Finally come to see me, huh?" his voice, scratchy and underused, reverberates around the cold stone walls of the cell almost mockingly. But she, at least, is able to see that he isn't upset that she's here. "Took you long enough."

She slowly, almost unwillingly, takes in the discolored surroundings, unconsciously noting the lack of lighting and the absence of any real furniture. She allows her eyes to wander to the tiny, unsteady bed that lies against one of the walls, and then to the stooped sink in the right corner, and back to the reinforced metal door that she had stepped through just moments before with an escort.

"You don't look like you approve of my new abode." He flashes her a wry grin and rises from the wooden chair he'd been sitting in to face her fully.

She takes him in. He's lost more weight than she'd care to think about and he looks older than he should have been. His hair, now dark and unkempt, looks far cry from what it used to be.

Now, she can't help but feel a well of pity growing in the pit of her stomach for the boy whom she swore she once knew.

"Been here almost three years, Marie," he says nonchalantly, like it doesn't mean a lot, now that he's been here so long. "You're probably the first visitor I've had since…" he paused. "… Well, you're the first." And his gaze flickers elsewhere, breaking eye-contact with her.

Marie fleetingly wonders to herself if maybe he had turned himself in after Bobby's death. Then promptly shakes off the thought almost as quickly as it had come. St. John was never the one to give up, no matter how fucked up he believed his life was. _He got himself caught, _she tells herself, _and now he can't run anymore… Hasn't been running for a long time now. _And she only found that out a few weeks back.

"So. How you been?" he asks of her, as though resuming a conversation when all she's really done so far is keep her mouth shut like she's at a loss for words. He sounds so much like the St. John Allerdyce she'd known back when they were younger that it unnerves her. Does living in a prison so long do this to a person?

Marie doesn't want to think about it.

"I've been coping," she finally says, breaking her silent spell. "Been doing pretty good actually." And she flinches, not sure if that had been a good response to someone who's been living the past few years of his life in a maximum-security prison for mutants.

"'Doing pretty good' would be right," he drawls, eyes flicking over her youthful face and down to her hand where the gold engagement ring encircled one of her fingers.

She notices him staring and clears her throat. His eyes snap back to her face and he grins boyishly, making him seem eerily young again.

"So, who's the new guy?" he questions slyly.

She keeps her expression neutral, or as neutral as possible; because she can see there is _something_ under his eyes that wants to make her shiver uncontrollably. The words of his question seem innocent enough, but she somehow senses both John _and_ Bobby behind those words. She can't help but think she's stabbed someone in the back.

Either one of them.

"I don't know if it's any of your business, John," she replies, voice quiet.

He shrugs. "Can't blame me for asking, can you?" And his eyes stare into her own like he _knows_.

"No… Guess not," she mutters, looking away.

"Well, if you've still got your mutation… how -"

"It's better this way," she cuts him off automatically, as though she's gone through this conversation a million times before. Her eyes are now examining the floor but she doesn't really see it. "I don't…" her voice drops suddenly, "I don't want to have more people in my head, John. Not after _him_. Not after you. Not after Logan."

John wonders if a marriage without skin-on-skin contact even meant she held any real feelings for the 'new guy'. But he realizes he doesn't quite care. If he thought she's moved on, well, he thought wrong.

She's just as stuck as he is. If not physically, then emotionally. Fucking hell, they were both in a rut, struggling to get out.

"Hey."

She looks up.

He falters for a split second, then flashes her another smile, and this time it's laced with understanding, if not sympathy.

"You're trying, Marie. At least you're trying."

Marie doesn't know what to make out of that. Doesn't really know what he means. Then, it dawns on her. She's trying to _move on_.

At least she's trying.

The corners of her mouth twitch upward a little. She hasn't the spirit to return the smile, knowing that he doesn't even have the _chance_ to move on whilst caged in here.

Then, remembering something, she reaches deep into one of the pockets of her dark coat with a gloved hand.

"I've got something for you," she says, her voice taking on a slightly more assured tone.

And she finally pulls out a small item and tosses it at John.

He catches it deftly in one hand, his eyes lighting up instantly. He's recognized what it was from the moment it left Marie's fingers.

"You've got to be kidding me," he says, half-incredulous, half-delighted. He doesn't know if he should be amused by this or troubled.

Marie shrugs, inwardly smiling a knowing smile at the look on his face. "It's because I knew how much you'd miss it. And it's not like they'd have any access to fire here."

His eyes are still on the zippo clutched in his fingers. His thumb brushes over the monochrome surface. It isn't his old shark zippo, but right now, he doesn't quite care. It's been too long since he last felt the flames.

"How'd you get clearance on this?" he whispers, his fingers still lingering on the cool exterior of the lighter, as though afraid of snapping it open even though he's aching to do it.

"Snuck it in," she replies. "But you _do_ know… I can't let you keep it…"

He doesn't answer her. He knows. But giving him this one chance is enough for him.

He's finally flicked it open with a _clink_. And he's lit it, drawing the warmth into his palm, still able to control it even after years of non-existent practice.

Beautiful, bright fire reflects in Marie's eyes and the dark cell lights up with the complex inferno that he's now manipulating with a certain reverence and thrill, its flames making shadows flicker and dance along the stone surrounding them. And the hush sound of burning fills the area exhilaratingly.

It's almost as if he's been revived again. Resurrected. _Youthful_.

"If you want to know how I got myself caught," John says then, making two fireballs jump into the air and swirl around like magical birds, "They managed to track me down and cure me before I could do any real damage. Yeah, they used force," he adds almost smugly, "because I was still on their 'Most Wanted' list. It was temporary, but it gave them enough time to stop me and shove me in here. And as you said, no access to fire."

She nods silently, then decides that she's running out of time.

She stretches out one of her hands and the fire leaps forwards into her palm, not close enough to touch her gloves, but close enough to make John realize she has his mutant ability. _Still_. And he can see, behind those doe-like eyes of hers, many long years of dedication and practice. _Many_.

He stares, as if only now truly seeing her for the first time. And he blinks, snuffing out the fire still under her control. And he strides up to her, pulling her into an embrace.

"Thank you," he murmurs in her ear, and he doesn't know why he's even this close to her. But then again, he hasn't touched anyone in three years. Even if she's _Rogue_ and not Marie. It's enough. And he pushes the zippo into her hand firmly.

She grips the lighter tight and wraps her arms around him, her head resting gently against his shoulder, her eyes closing to fight back what she knows is threatening to spill.

"No," she says breathlessly. "Thank _you_."

For a moment, it seems as though nothing matters anymore and the prison cell melts away and everything else doesn't exist except for them. And Marie clutches onto him, knowing that as soon as she steps away and leaves, she might never see him again and lose him forever.

Like she lost Bobby.

They don't let go. Not until they hear footsteps approaching the cell. Marie draws back a little, biting her lip, her eyes looking into John's almost sadly, and they say everything he needs to know. She doesn't want to leave yet.

She looks back towards the door regretfully. "I'm so sorry." _Sorry you've been here so long. Sorry you've been living a life you're not meant to be living. Sorry for this meeting. Sorry, sorry, sorry._

"Don't," he says. And he places a chaste kiss on her forehead before pulling away and stepping back. "Don't regret this."

She shakes her head voicelessly. Something like fire burns inside her.

The cell door clangs open forcefully, breaking the moment.

"Your time's up, missy," the rough voice of the prison guard booms throughout the chamber.

Marie turns away from John resolutely and nods to the man at the doorway, following him out.

"Hey Rogue," John calls out, and she turns, the use of her mutant alias startling her. "Have a nice life."

And she smiles. There's nothing more she can do or say to him.

The door slams shut and John is left in the shadows once more.

And then he reaches for his back pocket and pulls out what she had slipped in there by accident. Only, of course, it hadn't been an accident.

He grins stupidly in the darkness. "How convenient."

_Clink. Snap._

---

_**Author's Note: **__Somehow,__ I have a big, happy grin on my face now._

_This fic, like most of my other fics, started off as a one-shot. Then, I decided to delve deeper and explore this whole love-hate relationship that these two estranged mutants share. And well, this obviously isn't a one-shot fic anymore. _

_It also came about when I decided that I needed a change of scenery before continuing the Stranger saga. I don't know when I'll end this fic or if I'm even going to continue it. But if inspiration strikes, I'll be sure to write it up._

_Anyway, I think they've gone pretty far. They've progressed from yelling at each other in a dark alley to hugging each other in a prison cell._


	4. Letter from Nowhere

_**Author's Note: **Hey guys. I know this is not an update of Stranger. But I realized that I've neglected this fic for far too long. I **do** have the conclusion in mind now, so look out for it I guess. There's only one more chapter to go. Enjoy!_

* * *

She sighs a little as she places a thin, shaky, gloved hand on the doorknob, ready to turn it. Then, as an indecisive afterthought, thinks better of it and just leans forward to rest her forehead on the wooden surface before her with her eyes shut tight. She wonders for a brief moment if she's doing all of this right. All of _this_. On the other side of the door – this thin barrier she's up against right now – she knows she's got a life, everything she's ever genuinely wished for. But she knows it's still missing something. She doesn't know what, exactly. But she feels some kind of indistinguishable emptiness – like she realises with bleak despondency that there should be something more than just… _this_.

Minutes drag by and she finally detaches herself from the smooth, varnished surface of the door, pulling her form upright and straightening her thick black overcoat. She opens the door slowly with a light creak and enters her tiny abode without much more thought, expecting the apartment to be empty and devoid of life. Her fiancé of two and a half months would still be at work, she tells herself knowingly. He always works his late shifts on weekdays and she understands this more than perfectly. Therefore, she's more than just a little surprised when she finds him – the boyfriend whom she's been engaged to for so very long – sitting at the dilapidated couch in front of the mini television, slumped against the armrest of his seat, caught up in a peaceful sleep. The mindless drone of the television had no doubt placed the man in his current state.

He is startled out of his slumber when she clicks the door shut. The sound is quiet and subtle compared to the noise from the tube just feet away from him, but it's enough to wake him up and cause him to involuntarily sit up painfully straight on the couch. He glances around the relatively small apartment with a split-second look of disorientation before he finds her standing by the door. Breaking out into a charming smile, he stands and rubs his eyes with a certain tiredness. "Hey," he murmurs lowly and approaches his partner with arms outstretched.

"Hey there, darling," Rogue returns softly, placing her arms around the man gently.

He pulls her into a warm embrace. "Y' okay dere, cherie? Y' be lookin' a bit under de weat'er."

Rogue smiles a little and shakes her head dismissively, wondering how he's always able to tell when she isn't feeling up to scratch. "I'll be fine," she reassures him and pulls away after awhile. "What're you doing back home so early?" she whispers and places a hand flat on his chest, her small smile melting away and a frown taking its place.

He fidgets a little, takes a step back, and turns on his heel, going over to the television remote and muting the small black box with the push of a button, before turning back to his girlfriend with a sheepish expression on his face.

"Well, y're probably not goin' t' like it."

Rogue sighs. "Lemme' guess. You got fired?"

He shrugs in return. "Y' were always great at guessing."

"Remy! What did you do?" she admonishes, and suddenly her eyes narrow in suspicion. "Remy… if you tried –"

"Non, non! I didn't try t' blow anyt'ing up dis time! I promise!" he shakes his head hastily. "I didn't do not'ing bad! Really!"

Rogue crosses her arms. "Yeah. Sure," she mutters, unconvinced.

"Besides," her boyfriend continues, "I have anot'er job dat starts tomorrow anyways, so don't worry, okay cherie?" he smiles winsomely at her.

Rogue doesn't answer, only sighs and finally shrugs off her jacket, draping it over the coat hanger by the door. She moves further into the apartment interior and towards the kitchen. As she prepares a hot cup of chamomile tea, the television is unmuted once more.

Moments after, Remy's voice pipes up once more.

"Y' got mail, by de way. In de form of a letter. Y' friend dropped it off dis afternoon while y' weren't here."

Rogue frowns and tilts her head to one side, the cup of steaming tea pausing against her lips.

"Friend?" she repeats, confusion evident in her voice.

"Oui. From de academy. I b'lieve de monsieur's name is Logan?"

Her eyebrows shoot up. "Logan was here?" she exclaims, and she isn't sure if she's happy about the fact that her old acquaintance had come by for a visit, or if she's disappointed in him that he did not bother to stay.

"Logan was here, oui," Remy confirmed. "T' drop off de letter. He said someone sent it t' Xavier's. Has y' name on it an' everyt'ing. Whoever sent it pr'bly don't know y've been livin' here wit' me for a couple mont's now."

Silence falls for a second between the two.

"I put it on y' dresser in our room, cherie," he mutters, sensing what she wants to know.

Her appreciation goes unheard and Rogue grabs her steaming cup of tea and walks quickly into the only bedroom in the flat.

The letter – a single, brown, nondescript envelope – lies there peacefully, almost innocently. She picks it up off her dressing table and stares at it for awhile like it's a kind of puzzle that baffled and mystified her. It looks perfectly normal – no one's opened it as of yet.

She suddenly smells something new. Something like ash and cinder and fading embers through the simple wafting aroma of chamomile and the other familiar scents she's acknowledged for the past few months. And she's reminded briefly of a flurry of dying amber flames.

She places her mug down gently, rips the letter open without another moment's hesitation, removes the two thin pieces of paper from within, walks over to her bed and collapses onto it.

And then, she reads.

--

_Hey Roguey. Guess who? No, I'm not going to sign this or anything. If anyone at Xavier's gets their hands on this and reads it (besides you), they'd probably be able to tell it's me. But still, it's fun to keep you guessing… _

_Alright, fine. It's me, Pyro. Or whatever. I don't really care what people call me nowadays. I hardly get to talk to anyone anyway, unless I'm threatening someone for some much-needed cash along a deserted street. Hopefully this letter thing finds you in good health. Or finds you AT ALL really, cuz I kinda figured you weren't living at the institute anymore. You ARE engaged (or maybe even MARRIED) now, after all. With any luck, someone'll pass it on to you or something (without opening the goddamn envelope)._

_It's been awhile since we last talked, huh? Dunno if you found out (probably not, since authorities at the mutant DC don't like to make it known that they screwed up) – I've finally broken out of the detention centre. Without any difficulty, too. Liberation at last! Oh god, you have no idea how long it's been since I last saw blue skies and inhaled fresh air… And, it's all thanks to, well, you know… Some genius gave me some ammunition to use and I broke out. I ain't telling you WHO it was. Some asshole might intercept this damn letter and go after my accomplice/partner in crime. Wouldn't want that to happen. Really. I wouldn't._

_I really wonder why I broke out anyway. Now I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing. But that's nothing for you to concern yourself over. You probably have other things to worry about. Soooo, just letting you know that I AM alive and well and not quite living the high life, but hey, I'm surviving. Thanks anyways. For everything you've done in the past – being there for me and all that shit that you really didn't have to do… and whatever. Thanks. Always knew you were a great friend, despite the ups and downs that have fucked us up before. Friends – they're kinda hard to come by for me nowadays. But I DO understand that you probably don't even WANT to remotely associate yourself with a wanted criminal such as myself. I mean, you're a sensible girl, Roguey. But then again… THE ZIPPO? Girl, if I didn't know any better, I'm guessing that you pretty much don't consider me an adversary, huh? Such a sweetheart. Hey, who knows? We could've really hit off, you and I – if it weren't for me being the idiot I was and joining those 'evil' bastards. Not that I regret it._

_Whatever._

_Well, see ya around, Marie. Can't guarantee we'll ever catch up with each other in the near future, but I have a good feeling in my gut that we probably will. If anything, maybe I owe you a drink somewhere inconspicuous._

_Good luck with the new guy. And stuff._

_**Yours,  
**__**Johnny Boy.**_

_PS. If this letter doesn't reach Rogue, and you (whoever you are) have read the whole thing, SCREW YOU, SONUVABITCH._

_--_

She laughs when she finally reaches the last line. Her mind is now oddly blank. She then shakes her head, her dark hair falling into her bright, unseeing eyes. And she just laughs again. Her fingers start to tremble uncontrollably, rustling the letter in her slackening grip. The indistinguishable emptiness she's been feeling as of late overcomes her once more, this time in full force.

Her laughing morphs into something like a sob.

And she's unable to stop the torrent of tears that follow.


End file.
